The man who was expected to
by Lucystrn
Summary: The tip of his fingers tastes like cigarettes. The so many cigarettes he smokes all day long. One after the other. Pulling them out of the pack between his teeth. As though his life depended on it. As if it could burn his despair away.


A/N: Rated M for description of physical interaction of sexual nature (I think FF puts it under MA but whatever a little fluff never killed anyone).

Quite the dark work, centred around sex and adultery. Not to everyone's taste and clearly not a cheerful one shot.

Enjoy anyway!

_Lavender Brown_**  
Hermione Granger  
**Ronald Weasley

* * *

_He tastes like an ashtray. The tip of his fingers tastes like cigarettes. The so many cigarettes he smokes all day long.  
One after the other.  
Pulling them out of the pack between his teeth.  
Pulling at them constantly.  
As though his life depended on it.  
As if it could burn away his despair.  
His touch is like their fire, and sandpaper.  
His hands are callused and rough and grate at her skin. He's touching her everywhere and nowhere at once, feather like touch one second, possessive grab the next.  
It feels like trying to pull two opposite magnets together.  
You can. Barely. Before they snap away.  
It's intoxicating.  
In a bad way.  
She feels intoxicated.  
Attracted. Pulled to him and pushed away all at once. Desired and hated. Cared for and neglected.  
She can't help it.  
Like some muggle drug.  
Addicted.  
And it's not even the ride that pushes her to come back, it's more the thrill of it being forbidden.  
He is forbidden.  
To her at least.  
And it makes it so much more attracting.  
Magnetic.  
Inevitable._

* * *

_She follows the scars that mar his alabaster skin with the tip of a finger. It travels from his tobacco stained nails, to his freckled forearms, up to his rippled biceps, along the curve of his collarbone, to his shoulder blades, and ends at the back of his neck.  
The skin is thin, and fragile, a light pink colour, and sensitive. She knows only because she's learnt to read the wrinkle of his eyes, he doesn't show anything else.  
She's about to go back to his hands when he lifts the right, grabs his pack, shakes it, bites into the filter of yet another death stick, and lights it up with the tip of his wand.  
She'd being dismissed.  
She's no longer needed.  
She stands, and watches his azure orbs blur with his thoughts. He spits the smoke around him and the foul scent grabs her nose once more. The whole room reeks.  
Her soft blonde curls too.  
She's dressed and ready to go just when he crushes the end in the ashtray.  
"Monday night?" He asks, his eyes occupied with the half-empty pack he's shaking again.  
"Yes." She says and he grunts in approval, lighting up another one. He doesn't look at her._

* * *

**He smoked in the house. It smells in every room. She can't stand it any more. He's in the kitchen, at the window, his left elbow resting on the counter, smoke hiding his face.  
"You said you'd quit."  
"Why don't you start instead?"  
She's giving up. Swiping her wand to clear the air, she walks to him. He takes a step away.  
Tears swell up under her eyes. He crushes the cigarette in a glass made ashtray, turns around, and goes.  
She's left to clean the scent off their walls and clothes.  
She's left to cry for a husband that is no longer there.**

* * *

_Monday nights are always quick.  
The smoke chokes her as the door clicks after her. His hands are on her a moment after, the rasping of his breathing in her ear, the grating touch of his fingers on her neck.  
His wet mouth meets the sensitive skin below her ear and she's pulled once more in his intoxicating embrace.  
Her shirt is lifted until she has to take it off, his is already gone.  
His skin is cold, his tongue burning hot in contrast as it traces the curve of her collarbone. Her breathing increases in pace as he presses his arousal to her hip bone.  
She unbuckles his belt and his trousers are off him within the second. He pushes her back into the couch in a corner of the room, his whole weight resting on her and his right elbow.  
She doesn't have time to trace the muscles of his arms on Monday nights.  
Never on Monday nights.  
He's already pulled at her underwear without bothering to take her skirt off and, gripping a fistful of her hair, he dives into her with no warning.  
She's ready, and inhales a deep shattering breath.  
Her heart breaks. Every time.  
His skin warms up against hers, his blow brings the acrid smell of cold tobacco to her nose, he doesn't let her taste him on Monday nights.  
He thrusts into her, hard long stokes, grunting in her ear and against her neck, she grips his shoulders, digs her nails in the pink fragile skin of his scars, and ignores the tears that roll down her cheeks.  
His release is close and hers is forgotten, or uncared for.  
Still, she burns, and cries, and meets his every thrusts with her hips.  
As if her life depended on it, as if it could make her despair go away, just like when he smokes.  
With a final groan he jerks in her arms and pushes harder in her before slumping atop her, resting his whole weight on her.  
He lets her taste him once before tearing himself away from her.  
He lights a cigarette while she looks for her underwear.  
"Wednesday?"  
"Yes."  
He doesn't look at her and she goes, wiping the remnant of tears from her face.  
_

* * *

**She's in the living, waiting.**

**The house is cleaned of the smell, the smoke is gone, the air is fresh. Molly's spells never cheat.  
He's late.  
Every other day.  
Every Monday.  
More so on Wednesdays.  
She ignores the pebble at the pit of her stomach and waits.  
She pretends to read.  
The door clicks.  
The smell follows.  
Not a word leaves her mouth when he enters, his short hair ruffled, the rim of his shirt poking out of his trousers, his auror robes on his arm.  
She doesn't have the force to ask him how his day was.  
He doesn't ask her either. Instead, he lets the robes on the back of a chair for her to wash too, takes a step towards her but his eyes are on her hands.  
The ring she wears on her left hand doesn't shine any more.  
He blinks and turns around, taking the stairs to the bedroom. Their bedroom.  
She joins him when her cheeks are dry and he is already asleep.**

* * *

_His palms scrap the thin envelope of her breasts, squeeze them until it almost hurts, and crawl down her stomach to stop at the inside of her thighs.  
Warmth spreads up her core to her womb, making her quiver and lean in his touch. He notices, and presses the calloused palm against her.  
His mouth is on her breast with expert strokes of knowledge.  
She's ready in a matter of seconds.  
She's whimpering like a slave, quietly begging for his touch.  
He obliges, breath hot and heavy against her chest, one hand in her hair, the other pressed against her cunt as she does the moving.  
She can feel his arousal through his trousers against her leg, and when she's finally begging aloud he opens his fly, lowers his slacks to his knees, and his hand leaves her.  
His tip takes its place as both his elbows come resting around her face but he doesn't meet her eyes.  
Instead he watches a spot atop her breasts, frowning as he enters her.  
It burns.  
She traces the muscles of his arms with her fingers, trying to memorise once more the shape of him, the path of his scars, the curves of his neck and shoulders, as he thrust into her, groaning, the smell of cold tobacco tickling her nostrils._

* * *

**He looks hollow. Empty. A shell of who he'd once been.  
He has the same sparkling hair. The exact same shade of eye he had all those years ago. But the amused twinkle that shone at her in them is now gone. The spark of vibrant red as the wind blows his hair has left him and is now replaced by the putrid smoke of the death stick he's pulling at with desperation.  
It feels like he's trying to breathe death, welcoming it with all the strength of his lungs, but fails, as he exhales that acrid and choking smoke, his eyes each time loosing more light.  
Each blow looks like a disappointment.  
So he pulls at it again until it's nothing more but a brownish bit he crushes at the bottom of any dish he finds.  
And he tries again. And again.  
Hermione has given up.  
Nothing she ever said, nothing she ever did worked.  
So, she doesn't say anything any more, she doesn't do anything, she watches, helpless, as the man she loves slowly empties, vanishes in the smoke he seems to have given all his hope to, trying desperately not to cry.  
There is nothing she can do.  
He doesn't want her to do anything.**

* * *

He walks past the threshold of that house that everyone call his home. But him. Hermione is in the living room again, her eyes fixed upon the front page of a thick book she doesn't read. Her eyes are swollen and red but he can not bring himself to care any more.  
He passes her, keeping his gaze to his scarred hands.  
Those ugly scars.  
He almost shivers as he remembers the burning pain of the tentacles on his skin. It had been a dull ache, something he'd felt at the back of his mind while a thousand of different thoughts had invaded his brain and vision.  
He walks to the stairs and takes them slowly, then enters the bathroom.  
He hasn't bothered to wash Lavender off his skin before coming back. Home.  
It's not like Hermione would notice or smell it. They don't touch each other any more anyway.  
The water crawls down his back in hard sprays, the smell of the provocative musk flowing away from him. Her intimate scent, the one he rarely smells through the smoke is there, and vanishes almost as instantly as he could grasp it.  
He only turns the water off once he's heard Hermione's slow footsteps pass the baths and the door to the bedroom click. Their bedroom.  
In one long step he's in front of the mirror, rubbing his face roughly with a soft towel. So soft he has to rub for several minutes to feel his skin ache and turn red.  
He drops the towel on the floor and lifts his face without thinking.  
There he is. Staring back at himself.  
The man who was expected to.  
The man who has disappointed.  
The brave sidekick. The least interesting out of the golden trio. The not-so-funny-any more. The last bit. The least famous. The most boring one. The one whose name people forgot. The poor charity case in the shadow of a hero best-friend. The barely there husband of a Minister wife.  
The zero.

The cheater.

* * *

She begs for him.  
For his touch. For him.  
She's desperate. Enslaved, in love perhaps.  
But she doesn't expect anything of him.

She begs for his touch but doesn't expect it to fulfil her. She craves it and is content with what little she receives. She doesn't ask for more, for she knows he doesn't have more to give.  
She takes what she can, and doesn't expect anything.  
She isn't disappointed.  
Heart-broken, assuredly, but not disappointed. For she knows what it is to be in shadows, left behind, uncared for.  
For she knows one has to take what one needs, wherever one can.  
It's why she comes back, every time, every other day she comes back.  
He doesn't have to wait for her. It's a certainty she'll come.  
Whatever soul-tearing sorrow it brings her after, because he knows the tears aren't from pleasure or joy, she still comes back. **  
**He does too.  
She's the only one in the world who needs him so badly she's enslaving herself.  
She needs him.  
Need.  
To live.  
She's the only one.  
It's Monday.  
Out of habit she prepares herself to go right after.  
He doesn't move.  
She's taken aback and freezes. He lowers his eyes to his hands.  
Her bottom lip quivers and she tentatively lifts the soft finger she always trails along his scars afterwards. On Wednesdays. Or on Fridays.  
Mondays are always a rush. Hermione comes home early on Mondays.  
But this Monday, as Lavender's finger tip reaches the thin track of burnt flesh a tentacle left behind, he lets himself look at her.  
The glim in her baby blue eyes, the ruffled crease of her shirt, the raw mess of her soft curls, the sweet curve of her ear, the swollen red of her lips.  
Her touch is soothing.  
Always soothing.  
She needs it.  
He does too. But it's forbidden.  
Hermione comes early on Monday nights.  
He closes his eyes as her finger reaches the bend of his elbow. Her touch lightens.  
She knows it still hurts.  
He's never told, anyone. Ever.  
She still knows and her touch becomes so light goosebumps crawl up his arm and he shivers. The touch instantly vanishes and his eyes snap open.  
She looks small. Scared.  
He tries to look expectant, as to reassure without words that she didn't do anything wrong.  
She doesn't understand. Because she doesn't expect anything of him. She doesn't expect him to enjoy her touch or to want it. She just takes whatever she can.  
So, pushing aside the thought that Hermione must already be home, he lowers his gaze to his arm once again.  
Lavender's eyes grow wide and blur and he knows he has to say something.  
She looks confused and tremulous and doesn't move any more.  
He knows he's scaring her.  
So, slowly, he points a finger at her chest, until it reaches the small nub of flesh on her right breast.  
Then, he does something he's never done before, he gives.  
Something she's not expecting.  
And she takes it. Tears filling her eyes and flowing down her cheeks as she murmurs his name like a lullaby.  
They're not tears of joy though.  
They're tears of anticipatory sorrow.  
For she knows he's going to go after, and her heart will break in a thousand pieces.  
She trembles under his touch as he softly strokes the breast in his hand, rolls her nipple between his fingers, traces the space between her breasts with his thumb, his eyes never leaving hers.  
Her hands eventually return to his body, and, clearly disbelieving, she continues what she was doing earlier.  
When her finger tips reach the back of his neck, both his hands are lightly resting on her waist, thumbs stroking in round patterns across her hipbones. **  
**She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out of it and, uncertain as to why he didn't just dismiss her tonight, hopeless and dead inside, he captures her mouth, but with no intention this time.  
He gives himself the time to feel her lips, the curve of her cupid's bow, the tip of her tongue, her chin, her jaw, the side of her neck, her ear, and back to her mouth.  
She tastes like tears.  
She tastes like heart-break at what he's doing to her.  
But she needs it and craves it more than she'll regret it. So she stays.  
And it's all he needs.  
For someone to need him.  
To be the centre of someone's existence as he is Lavender's.  
She cries, and whimpers but her hands keep touching him. Her mouth keeps kissing him back. Her breasts keep pressing against his chest.  
He's breaking her.  
Giving.  
But he keeps going, and this time, he doesn't use her.  
He doesn't rush into sex, he doesn't press his hard length in her core like an animal, he doesn't go straight down on her to check if her cunt is wet enough.  
He touches her.  
Gives her all she's been trying to take, all she's barely taken from him for so long.  
Touch.  
His hands go slowly down the length of her entire body, her face, her hair, her calves. His lips taste her shoulders for the first time, her belly button, her wrists, the inside of her knees.  
She's crying.  
Loudly now.  
He can't say anything. He keeps touching her.  
Until his lips eventually end between her legs, kissing her tights, lapping the length of them up to her sex.  
She's still crying.  
He inhales deeply and tries to explain himself without words. Parting her legs wider, he kisses right next to her now parted lips.  
All around her sex he presses his mouth, then, slowly, he darts his tongue out and traces her entrance, tasting her for the very first time.  
A loud sob escapes her mouth and he decides to shift the meaning of the tears once and for all. He still can't say a word.  
So, his mouth silently shows her that he can give her what she wants.  
What she needs.  
For she never asked for anything, for she's always needed him and never expected anything.  
He makes her quiver, whip, cry his name under his mouth and fingers.  
He makes her beg for her own release for the first time, he makes her cry his name in desperation as if he were her god.  
He makes her come around his fingers, against his tongue, as hard as he's able to.  
Then, she cries harder but he's found out what to say.  
She curls up in a ball, low sobs making her form tremble in her side of the couch and instead oflighting up a cigarette, instead of turning away from her, he takes her in his arms and says:  
"I'm sorry."  
"I love you." She answers and he kisses her temple.  
"I know."


End file.
